Home is Where the Heart Is

‘What little stars they were. Anyway, thanks for helping to organise the concert. It’s been great fun.’

‘Happy to do so. I enjoyed myself enormously. Any time you have an event on, just let me know,’ she said, pecking his cheek with a quick kiss before turning to leave.

It was then that she saw Alex, standing to attention before them, his brow puckered into a grim frown. ‘Alex, goodness, I’d no idea you intended to come tonight.’ His sudden appearance was startling, and he looked so stern and regimented that Cathie thought for a moment Steve might be about to click his heels together and salute.

‘I can see you weren’t expecting me,’ he remarked icily.

Noting the scowl of jealousy on his face, Cathie hurried to give him a kiss. ‘It’s lovely to see you, darling. You should have told me you were coming. This is Steve Allenby, by the way, who works at the Co-op and organised this event. It has raised a large sum of money for our returning heroes.’

‘Cathie worked hard too, bless her,’ Steve said with a smile, as he stretched out a hand for Alex to shake.

He didn’t take it. Instead, he turned to address his fiancée in a firm tone of voice. ‘I’ve come to see you safely home, not watch this children’s concert.’

‘Oh, of course, how kind of you. Well, goodnight Steve.’ Hooking her arm into his, she allowed Alex to lead her out into the cold dark night.

The incident brought rather a sad feel to the end of what had been a joyous evening. But when they reached the corner of her street Alex pulled her into his arms and proceeded to kiss her with such vigour, any feeling of resentment quickly dissolved as she responded with equal passion. It was almost a compliment that a perfectly boring friendship with Steve had sparked jealousy in him. Alex’s increasing fervour did cause her some alarm when he slid his hand down her thigh to lift her skirt and began to fondle her private parts. She almost slapped his hand away, feeling a sudden urge to protest that he was going too far, but then lost the courage as desire flowered within her. Hadn’t he made it very clear that he wished to enjoy life again? Who was she to deny him a little pleasure, and after all these years apart?

Besides, didn’t his need for her prove how very much he loved her?

On Christmas Eve, Cathie went through the ritual of hanging up the baby’s Christmas stocking, and setting out a plate of mince tarts and a small glass of sherry for Santa Claus, even though little Heather hadn’t the first idea what was going on. When Christmas Day finally dawned, the little girl instantly fell in love with the soft little teddy bear she found poking out of the stocking. What a joy the child was, so happy and giggly, and so easy to love. She stood holding tight to a chair as she dangled the bear with one hand. Then pulling it to her chest, gave it a hug as she took her first step, wobbled madly for a moment and then plonked down on her bottom. Cathie laughed and clapped with delight. She’d be walking soon.

‘This was your mummy’s teddy when she was a little girl. He’s called Billy. I’m so glad you like him too,’ she said to the bright-eyed child, who instantly planted a kiss on the stuffed bear’s nose, then said, ‘B-b-b,’ as if making an effort to start practising his name.

They had a fun time playing with her new toys – some wooden bricks and a little postbox with plastic letters to fit in. Later in the morning Cathie reluctantly handed Heather over to Davina. She hated the idea of them spending Christmas apart. Oh, how she wished she’d mentioned the baby before now, then she wouldn’t have needed to leave her. But everything had seemed much more complicated than she’d expected, or else she was still very much the coward Steve remembered. Cathie was quite certain everything would have been different had she found the courage to do the right thing. Then Alex would have invited Heather. Now it was too late. It certainly wouldn’t be appropriate to mention the subject today, but once Christmas was over Cathie fully intended to explain everything.

‘So your mother didn’t rise to the occasion then?’ Davina asked, with a wry smile. She rocked the pram a little and then smiled down at the baby, who was sitting up straight and proud, cuddling the bear in her arms.

‘I’m afraid not.’

Rona had already gone off to The Donkey, her favourite pub on Water Street, to celebrate Christmas Day with her friends. Having witnessed Alex’s invitation at first hand, she’d quickly made it very clear that the baby was not her responsibility. ‘The child needs a proper mother, not a young girl like yourself who can’t even offer her a father.’

‘I’m about to be married so I will be able to offer her one soon. I realise I should have told Alex about Heather long before now. You were wrong to advise me against doing that, Mam. But couldn’t you just for once stand in for me, if only for a few hours. It is the season of goodwill.’

Rona had been sitting at her dressing table applying rouge and lipstick with her usual diligence, then fluffed up her victory roll hairstyle, scarcely listening to a word Cathie said, as her next remark proved. ‘Tommy has invited me to his house for dinner. I gave him the goose we bought, and a few of the trimmings so as not to waste them.’

‘You did what? You’d no right to do that, Mam. You didn’t even buy that food, I did, and could have cooked it for dinner tomorrow, on Boxing Day.’

Rona shrugged. ‘You never said you intended to do that. Anyway, it’s too late, it’s gone. No doubt the goose is already in Tommy’s oven. He’s quite a good cook, actually.’

Now, as Cathie met Davina’s sympathetic gaze with anguish in her own, Cathie let out a heavy sigh. ‘I’ve even lost the food I bought for Christmas, but there’s really no arguing with Rona. She does exactly as she pleases, with no thought for anyone but herself.’

‘Maybe you should tell Alex today about the child. It is, as you rightly pointed out to your mother, the season of goodwill, so this could be your best opportunity.’

‘I don’t think it would be quite appropriate on the day I meet his parents for the first time.’

‘They need to know some time, so why not now?’

Cathie thought about this piece of advice as she made her way past St John’s Church. Once she had met his parents and done the polite thing by chatting to them and enjoying the Christmas meal they offered, she hoped there might come a moment during the course of the afternoon when she and Alex would be alone. That would hopefully give her the opportunity she needed to explain her plan for adoption. What should she say? How could she put it? Are you willing to accept my late sister’s child as your own? Perhaps that was a bit too blunt. And how could she begin to explain why she had kept silent for so long on the subject? Was it really just because she had no wish to speak of Sal’s death, or more from a fear of losing him?

Whatever the reason, she must remind Alex how many orphaned children there were now, that too many were growing up without fathers. She had no wish for little Heather to feel abandoned when she had a loving aunt to care for her. Perhaps she should have brought the baby with her, after all. Surely once he met Heather all these worries would be resolved. Although how Alex’s parents would react was much more of an unknown factor.

At least little Heather was safe and happily playing with Davina, so she’d hopefully enjoy Christmas Day, even without her aunt. Cathie had agreed to collect her later in the afternoon, around four o’clock. Tomorrow she’d make it up to the child by devoting the entire day to her.

Arriving at the door of a fine Georgian, three-storeyed terraced house bearing the name Doctor Victor Ryman written on a plaque fixed to the wall, Cathie was suddenly beset with the urge to turn on her heels and run back home. Instead, she took a deep breath to gather her courage and lifted the brass knocker. It looked so bright and shiny the maid had no doubt polished it that very morning. Cathie smiled to herself as it crossed her mind that she would probably have more success applying for such a job rather than the role of wife to a doctor’s son. Giving the knocker a gentle bang, she almost hoped that no one would hear it.

CHAPTER SEVEN (#ulink_a463d9a1-8c09-5fd1-8254-a3eb5ac17006)

If Cathie had been hoping to see jolly faces in funny hats, hear the sound of carols being sung or played on a piano, or even laughter resonating through the house as this was Christmas Day, she was instantly disappointed. There wasn’t even any sign of Christmas decorations, save for a stately tree set in a corner of the large, spacious hall, sparingly bedecked with baubles. Nor was Alex waiting there to welcome her. The door was opened by an elderly manservant, who took her coat and hat before leading her upstairs to the drawing room. Cathie trembled with nerves. This was not at all how she’d hoped to spend Christmas, nor had she imagined that Alex’s home would be so grand. How naïve of her to assume he would be happy to spend it at her own humble abode.

As she entered, the entire family, seated on leather armchairs set around a stunningly beautiful panelled room, all turned to gaze upon her in silence. No one spoke, or offered the compliments of the season. Was her Christmas rose dress too garish? Did it not suit her strawberry blonde curls, which suddenly seemed to be falling over her flushed cheeks in a scraggy mess, making Cathie feel even more uncomfortable? A crystal chandelier hung from the high ceiling, seeming to freeze the scene in its bright light, which even the flames from the coal fire burning in the stately fireplace failed to warm. Then, springing from his chair by the window, Alex strode over to put an arm about her shoulders and give her a quick kiss on the cheek. Cathie smiled up at him, sighing with relief.

‘Merry Christmas,’ she murmured.

‘And to you, sweetheart. Come and meet my folks.’

Leading her by the hand around the room rather like a dog on a lead, he introduced her, one by one, to his family, a process she found totally confusing. There were so many of them that she instantly forgot every name and relationship the instant it was given. She had no difficulty, however, remembering his stern-faced father. Doctor Victor Ryman appeared quite old, stockily built, and really rather grand, as Brenda had told her he was. The very arrogance of his stance filled her with a sense of foreboding. He offered no compliments of the season either, or even a welcoming smile, merely muttered good day through clenched teeth, giving her a brief nod.

Alex’s mother, Dorothy, a tall elegant lady, smiled somewhat coldly as she offered Cathie a slender hand sparkling with jewelled rings and bracelets. And his sister, Thelma, a perfect beauty with a sheath of glossy black hair that fell upon her bare shoulders, was wearing the kind of long stylish gown one would only expect to see worn by Rita Hayworth in such films as Cover Girl.

‘It looks as if your family have lived here for generations,’ Cathie politely remarked, admiring the range of portraits depicting Alex’s ancestors that were hung upon the silk-covered walls. She felt utterly overwhelmed and intimidated by the apparent high status of his family. What kind of home had she stepped into?

‘Not really, we’ve moved about quite a lot, and the portraits come with us wherever we go, don’t they, Pa?’ his sister said, glancing with a shrug and a smile at her father.

‘Indeed, even to India,’ he agreed. ‘They are our heritage, which confirm who we are.’

Did she have such a thing as heritage, whatever that might mean exactly? Cathie wondered. It seemed highly unlikely as her mother rarely spoke of her own family, and they tended to get through life by taking one day at a time.

‘I believe you live close to Potato Wharf, Miss Morgan?’

‘Cathie, please.’ How formal everyone sounded. ‘We live near the River Medlock actually, but in that general area, yes,’ she agreed, not wishing to be too specific considering the sad state of their street right now.

‘Poor you, so glad I wasn’t born round here.’

Her brother gave a hollow laugh, which to Cathie’s ears sounded faintly embarrassed. ‘It’s not a bad thing to be Manchester-born.’

‘How can you say that when you were born in Jaipur, as were the rest of us while Pa was working for the Rajah out there? Of all the wonderful places we’ve lived, I ask myself daily how on earth we ended up living in this dreadful city.’

‘Manchester is a wonderful city,’ Cathie bravely stated. ‘Or was before the war destroyed so much of it. As is Castlefield.’

‘What a silly name,’ Thelma retorted. ‘I don’t see any sign of a castle.’

‘I think it had something to do with the Romans who once occupied this area, so maybe they had a castle or a fort of some sort. It used to be called Castle-in-the-Field back in medieval times when even then Manchester was a famous trading port, or so my father told me. But over time the name of this district was shortened to Castlefield. I’m quite proud to be a Mancunian, actually.’

‘Brave of you to take such a stand, dear, although you didn’t have any choice on where you were born, so you have my sympathy.’ Thelma flicked her winged brows in caustic amusement before graciously moving back to her seat, leaving a cloud of Chanel perfume in her wake.

Cathie almost wished she’d kept her mouth shut.

The atmosphere over lunch was equally chilly and fraught with tension, almost as bad as the cold sleet now slapping against the stained glass windows. There were various aunts, uncles and cousins seated around the large table. Cathie smiled vaguely at everyone, but no one smiled back, or even bothered to speak to her save for his Aunt Mary, a wizened old woman with grey hair who prattled on at length about a book, For Whom the Bell Tolls by Ernest Hemingway, which she happened to be reading. Even Alex seemed sunk in some private world.